


A Less Than Promising Lead

by iamavacado



Series: Bo and Esky Series [2]
Category: Bo - Fandom, Bo and Esky, Esky, OC - Fandom, not my oc - Fandom
Genre: F/M, OC, bo - Freeform, esky - Freeform, fanfiction squared, legendofgrump, not my OC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 05:39:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11351010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamavacado/pseuds/iamavacado
Summary: Bo is attacked... Because he's back on the market? But he hasn't been in several years. What's going on?





	A Less Than Promising Lead

**Author's Note:**

> So, since no one else reads this, Legend, this is for you!!! I'm not done, but I've had this sitting in my writer for weeks, and even if i never end up finishing it, i want you to read what i have. Again, this isnt canon to the universe you've created, but oh well!!!!!

Bo has gotten used to that feeling. Sitting at the bar, or a table at the bar, or a bench outside the bar, or on his bed ordering from a bar, or at the gas station buying booze because they won't let him buy any more drinks at the bar. He's downing drinks like a runner drinks water after a marathon, and he's starting to get dizzy, and he's staring at his hands, and since when has he had fourteen fingers?

He slaps the counter as an indicator for "another please". His voice box is failing him because his throat is absolutely wrecked. Whether it be from all the alcohol, or the crying, or the dick he just sucked in the alley before he came in here, he doesn't know.

The bartender passes Bo a drink, and he holds it to his lips and lets his head fly back, swallowing the drink in one gulp and he's pretty sure the tender is giving him lime water now but he's too damn drunk to fight with someone.

"We close in ten minutes," says the bartender. Bo looks up at them: hair dyed a deep and vibrant blue, eyes an intoxicating brown (are they that intoxicating, or is Bo just extremely intoxicated?), and the look on their face says they pity him. It's the look he's most used to nowadays. Pity. A look thay says, "Hey, you're on your seventh martini here, and before that you drank a glass of vodka, and how does your body handle that much alcohol, you must have the most hardworking liver in the world, and what in the world is troubling you in a way that you drink this much? I'd hate to be you."

"Yep," Bo replies out loud, "I'd hate ta be me too." He slaps a fifty on the counter. "Keep th' change."

"There's no way you're driving home," says the bartender. 

"I don't have anywhere ta drive to, so you don' have to worry." Bo reaches into his pocket for his keys. He has to look down and fumble for them, so he doesn't really notice the silence that builds itself between them (as the bar is completely empty save for the two of them at this point) until he looks up and sees the look on the bartender's face.

"Is there something on m' shirt?" he asks.

"You don't have a place to go?"

Bo can't help himself as he rolls his eyes. "No, I don't. Don't worry. 'M not homeless. Just on the move. Back of my van is actually quite soft, you should check it out sometime."

The bartender snickers, probably having heard these types of offers a million times before. "I have a girlfriend."

Bo just says, "So do I."

"You'd hit on someone while you have a girlfriend?"

Bo almost ignores the comment as he turns and starts stumbling towards the door, but something about their tone made him stop. Maybe it wasn't the tone at all. Maybe it was the accusation itself. Maybe it was just the fact that this person gets to have a girlfriend at all. Maybe he heard the undertone of "scumbag" just under their breath. 

"My girlfriend's dead," Bo says before he can stop himself. Those words burn more than any whiskey, and he swallows the fire as he walks out the door. "Send love to yours though. She sounds peachy."

Bo is stumbling through the parking lot towards his van, mumbling curses to himself. He just had to bring it up, didn't he? No, two hookups weren't enough, he had to go and try and get that lucky three. And all he did was get rejected and remind himself of the very he thing he tries to forget every goddamn day.

He opens the backdoor of his van and climbs in, slamming the door shut and laying flat against the floor. He stares at the roof of the car. The ceiling covered in pictures of the two of them. Nothing professional, they're all mug shots, but god, he loves them. He can't help but smile as he remembers how they always had competitions to who could get the best mug shots, or who could get away with most. Bo still maintains that he won for all time and forever, because he's staring at the picture of him when he managed to sneak in a ferret. Although, the one where Esky is flipping the bird towards the photographer remains one of his favorite. It was all like a big joke to them. Because it was: everyone knew that prison couldn't hold them. They had a web of resources. Everyone praised the air they breathed, and they could get whatever they wanted. Romancing a few policeman between the two of them was never against the rules either.

Bo groans. "What am I DOING?"

God, does everything have to be about her? Why does every breath he takes have to be related to her? Can't he be selfish for one night of his life? Can't his stupid fucking brain just turn itself off for one motherfucking day? It's always his every other thought. _Damn, that guy's cute. So is that girl. She has red hair like Esky does. Did. Does this drink have an olive in it? I hate olives. Man, Esky loved olives didn't she? I always fed them to her because I never asked the bartender to remove the olive because I always loved feeding them to her. The smile she'd give me. I wonder if that girl over there likes olives. I wonder what her smile looks like. Wait. She's laughing. Oh. She's on a date. With that guy. Okay well, nevermind. Remember the dates Esky and me used to go on? Not traditional ones, obviously. More like, "Hey, let's go steal the Hope Diamond!" Except we never stole the Hope Diamond. I wanted to though. We were supposed to. That girl's ring looks like the Hope Diamond. Esky never liked rings._

Just. Shut. Up.

Bo sits up, trying to force the tears back inside his head. It's been, what, four years now (four years, three months, and ten days, but who's counting)? And in all those years he has never gotten through one day without thinking of her. And those same words. Over and over again. 

"....declared deceased upon arrival at Georgia Hospital."

Deceased. A fancy word for dead. A fancy word for gone. A fancy word for everything I ever worked for and loved until the stars exploded is in a box somewhere rotting down to the skeleton and my heart is literally in peices and no amount of alcohol or sex will put them back together.

"Don't be dead Esky," he asks. "'S all I ask of you."

Don't be dead.

A plea that the dead can't answer.

****

The next day is an uneventful one.

Well, mostly uneventful.

Bo is walking behind a movie theatre, hands shoved in his pockets, momentarily distracted from everything because he is marveling at the movie he just saw. Thankfully, the theatre he was in was empty save for him, so he had his cry of the day. Right on schedule.

"He held all of his parents as they die in his arms, and he's cracking jokes minutes later? Oh sir, you are hiding your pain." Bo chuckles to himself, slightly concerned because of the amount Bo related to the main character. He wonders if that's a bad thing. Probably. Oh well.

He looks up, and can see his van as he turns the corner. A lone car in an almost empty parking lot. He starts to feel parched for a drink. Where's the nearest bar?

Bo starts to take out his keys and alarm his car, when he feels two hands clamp on his shoulders. He is spun around and punched in the face before he gets a chance to ask what's happening. Bo sees what he swears is the flash of a camera, though that may have been his eyes momentarily rolling in and out of his skull, and before he knows it, he's on the ground.

A foot goes into his stomach, and he yells in pain. Whoever it is lands a few more blows on him before Bo manages to reach into his jacket and pull out a pocket knife. He thrashes his arm in the general direction of where the strikes were coming from, and they stop long enough for Bo to stand up. He reaches up and feels his nose. Bleeding. For some reason, he smiles.

"What. The HELL, was that?" He yells in between spurts of laughter. A boy stands in front of Bo, panting. Judging by his bloody knuckles, he's the culprit. There's a cut thats slowly dropping blood onto the ground on his arm. So he did end up getting him. Good. "That was pathetic! What are you trying to do? Rob me? I don't have any money."

"Liar," says the assailant. He's got a scar on his left cheek, Bo notices. 

"True," replies Bo, holding his hands up in mock surrender. Scarface tries to take advantage of the opportunity, lunging forward in an attempt to hit him again, but one threatening thrust of the knife prevents him. Bo pauses. Scoffs. "What a little, little, cowardly man. Not only do you sneak up behind people to surprise them, you back down when the rob-ee starts to defend himself. You didn't even bring a weapon, as if you could get anywhere with your bare hands these days. How old are you? Fourteen?"

Scarface stands straighter, offended. "I'm 20!" 

"Well you attack like you're fourteen. What a sloppy criminal. Is this your first time?"

"No!"

Bo's turn. "Liar." He can't hide his smirk. It's been so long since he's been in the burgling and murdering business, but there is no way he wouldn't be able to spot a crime virgin from a mile away. His name's probably Jeremy. He looks like a Jer. This kid bleeds Newbie: it's broad daylight, he's dressed in a yellow shirt, and he isn't even wearing a mask. Well, Bo never wore a mask either. But that was because he knew he could get away with it. This kid? No way. 

Bo takes the sleeve of his jacket and wipes the blood off his nose. It definitely isn't broken. The kid even hesitated when punching him. Geeze. How obvious can you get? "So for your first crime you decide to rob someone right on the street. Not even a petty theft? Smart. Quite smart."

"I wasn't trying to ROB you okay?"

"What were you trying to do then?"

Scarface goes silent. Like a high school kid, he tucks his hands in his pockets and stares at the ground. Bo stares at him for a second up and down, and slowly, it comes to him. He lowers the knife. Bo's eyes open wide in newfound amusement.

_"No,"_ he says, enlightened. 

"Shut up--"

"You did _not!"_

"It wasn't my idea--"

"You weren't trying to _rob_ me!"

"Come on--"

"You were trying to _kill_ me!" 

Scarface crosses his arms angrily. "Fine! I did okay? Shut up already."

Bo lets his head fly back in laughter. "Oh, oh this is great. This is--this is brilliant! You tried to kill me. Do you know...who I am? Oh that's fantastic!" He'd keep going, but he has to stop and hold his stomach because all this giggling is starting to hurt where he was kicked. "Tried to kill....oh my god..."

Scarface uncrosses his arms. "Shut UP!" He jumps forward and attempts to wrap his hands around Bo's throat, but Bo had already thought ahead. He grabs Scarface's wrists and twirls him around (if they weren't fighting, Bo would comment how it almost looks like they're dancing) and slams him against the brick wall of the movie theatre. He pins Scarface's hands above his head hard enough to make the boy yell.

"Who's idea was it?" he hisses.

"What?"

Bo holds the blade of the pocket knife to Scarface's throat. "You said it 'wasnt your idea'. Well, who's was it?"

"M-my boss."

"Which is WHO, Jeremy, I need a name!" He pushes the blade ever so closer. 

Scarface shuts his eyes. "Jones!"

"Jones?"

"Th... That's his name. He said, 'go get Bo and his girlfriend. We got along fine without them, and now that they're back on the market--"

"What do you mean, 'and his girlfriend'? I'm alone nowadays. And I'm not back on the market. I haven't been in--" Four years, three months, and eleven days-- "a while."

"I'm just going by what boss said okay? Pl....please let me go."

Bo pauses. "Hmph." He lets Scarface go. But not before landing him a good one in the stomach and grinning when he screams a curse. "Doesn't feel so good does it?"

"Fuck you."

"If you insist. Where do I find your boss?"

"No way I'm telling you."

Bo raises the knife.

"Like that'll make me."

Bo reaches out and snatches Scarface's arm. The arm he cut before. He holds it tightly enough to give bruises. "Pretty nasty cut you have here. Would be a shame if it got bigger." He starts to hold the blade against the edge of the wound, pulling along ever so slowly. Scarface yells.

"I'll take you to him!" 

Bo smiles, and lets go of his arm. That was easy.   
"Thanks Jeremy."

"My name is Cade."

"Let's go Jer. We got work to do." Bo's actually glad he didn't get drunk today. It's going to be an adventure.

Jeremy huffs and starts walking. Bo just smiles after him. The kid's harmless.

Bo reaches up and feels his cheek, which is starting to swell.

Mostly harmless.

****

"You know you should use your knees," Bo says.

"Huh?"

They've been walking in silence for a good couple hours now. The sun is starting to set, riddling the sky with orange and pink hues between the clouds, and a chill breeze has started up. Bo zips up his jacket, sticking the knife back in his pocket. He feels he doesn't need it anymore. Jeremy here doesn't seem like he actually wanted to kill Bo. More so, it didn't seem like he knew how anyway, so he's pretty sure if he ends up getting in a fight with him again, he'll be able to hold his own.

So Bo decides to make conversation as they make their way to what is sure to be a trap. He doesn't much care at this point. He's happy to be out of the house. And by house, he means van.

"Your knees," says Bo. He stops on the sidewalk, and so does Scarface. Bo spins him around. "If you want to come up to someone from behind, you want to grab their neck like this--" he puts his hands gently on Jeremy's neck, just at the base of it-- "Then you bring your knee up into the small of their back." Bo doesn't actually do it, but he touches the spot with his knee to demonstrate. Scarface turns back around while he continues. "They bend backwards, and you bring your elbow down on their nose, and now they're on the ground for a good ten seconds, so that gives you time to get on top of them and wail on them. Or kill them." There's a silence between them as Scarface considers this. Or maybe he's just confused as to why he's receiving fighting advice from a person he was supposed to kill. Either way. "Just so you know." Bo continues walking.

Jeremy catches up with him. "How do you know that that works?"

"That was a dumb question."

"I-I guess so. You've been doing it for a while huh?"

Bo nods. "Yeah. Years. It was my job."

"Cool."

"You haven't been doing it for a while, have you?"

Jeremy stares at the sidewalk. "No. I haven't."

"I assume you do it for money. What. Sick mom?"

"Sister. The money's good. Jones...he...well he isn't a good guy. But he isn't a bad guy either. He took me in and let me work for him."

"Ah yes. I'm sure me, the guy he wants dead, would agree that he isn't a bad guy."

"Well it's not MY fault he wants you dead."

"Well I don't even know who he is, so why would it be mine?"

Jeremy shrugs. 

They walk in only a semi awkward silence (as being victim and perpetrator of attempted murder will cause that to happen to a conversation) for a few more minutes before Scarface leads the two of them down an alleyway. A dark, dead end alleyway that looks completely empty.

Bo looks around, and it only takes five seconds to realize what's going on. They aren't inside a building, there's no light, no chairs, and certainly no Mr. Jones or bosses of any kind.

He hears that familiar, inviting click of a gun right behind his head. Bo smiles slowly, raising his hands. "You dirty little sneak," he says. "You should do theatre. You're a fantastic actor." Playing naive. He should've known.

As he turns around, he sees that Jeremy has a gun pointed inches from Bo's face. And he's smiling behind the gun. Smiling a smile that lets Bo know he's been a fool the whole time.

"You know, you were right Bo," says Scarface, "I haven't ever done this before. That's why I came prepared."

"So why didn't you shoot me when you had the advantage? Why did you let me kick your ass?"

"Because Jones wanted a show."

A show?

Just as he wonders, _why pick this of all places to put on a show? Why not Madison Square Garden?_ he hears a slow clapping from behind him. He starts to turn around, but Jeremy moves the gun closer. 

"Don't turn around."

"Thanks Caption Obvious."

"You're welcome Loutienant Sarcasm."

"Cade," says a voice behind Bo. It's deep, raspy. The guy probably smokes cigarettes. "You can put the gun down. You've done your job. He can turn around, see what I look like." The smile is evident in his voice.

Bo does turn around, and for some reason he feels like the protagonist of a movie, though he'll probably be dead by the end of the night (because why would your kidnapper show you their face if they were planning on letting you go home?). He keeps his hands up though, just in case Cade gets any ideas. If he's as any good an aim as he is a liar, then Bo would have to think strategically.

Jones is a fat man. Like the exact stereotype of a Godfather-style mob boss: fat rolls with an abundance comparable to that of the Appalachian Mountains, eyes the color of tobacco smoke, hair the color of mud (though there isn't much hair to speak of in the first place), and an ill fitting suit. Extremely ill fitting.

Bo can't help his attitude. If he's going to get shot, he's not going to do it blubbering like a baby, he thinks, as he assumes a fake southern accent. "Did Mister Jones come all tha way from church to visit me in his most best Sunday dress sir?"

Jones sneers. "You've got a mouth on you don't you?"  
"I'm not a regular hostage. Though you already know that."

"Yeah," says Jones, "we did. I assume you know why you're here."

Bo opens his mouth to explain that, no, he doesn't know why he's here; he was watching a movie and making plans to try a new cocktail down the street when some cheeto-fingered community theatre scarfaced ten year old looking prick decided to punch him in the face and then lead him to his self righteous suited up fat boss to be killed. He has no idea why he's here, but Jones starts to go on an annoyingly long monolauge anyway.

"It's been a good four years Bo. I've gathered up a nice ring of criminals from the streets without you there to make them afraid." Jones starts to pace with his hands clasped behind his back, and Bo is surprised to see that he can even _fit_ his arms behind his back. 

"Can I put my hands down? They're tired."

"No," spits Cade.

Bo lets his arms fall anyway. 

"As I was saying," Jones says, glaring at Bo, "with you and your girlfriend on the streets, no one else could get away with anything. You'd think the opposite, wouldn't you? Not what happened. Cops were crawling all over the place looking for you two, but only ended up catching us instead. There was no business for us with you in the way. And we were just about to get rid of you once and for all. But then, everything stopped."

Bo tries to keep his face blank, emotionless. He swallows down the bitter, copper-y feeling of knowing exactly what Jones is talking about. The day everything "stopped". The day Esky "stopped". The day she was declared D.O.A. at Georgia Hospital. The _day._

"We hadn't heard a peep from either of you. Until we saw the news." Jones smiles at Bo, showing his ugly, yellow teeth. Bo stares through him, deliberately not meeting his eyes. "No offense to you, of course, but we all celebrated in thinking you were dead. Ignorantly, we assumed that was the end of our trouble. But as of late, we've ran into--" He sighs heavily, annoyed by...something-- "into a big problem."

"Which is?"

"Don't play dumb with me. We all know you're back on the market." Jones steps closer to him, close enough that Bo can smell the whiskey on his breath. Does his breath smell like that when he drinks? Huh. He'll have to buy better toothpaste.

_Wait, what?_ Bo just then processes the words Jones said to him. Back on the market? "What you do mean I'm back on the market? I haven't committed a crime in years." 

"Everyone will believe that standing on their head Bo," Jones says as he walks away from.

"I'm serious." Bo starts to step forward, but he hears Cade raise the gun again. That authoritative click. He steps back, slightly annoyed. "I haven't even stolen a mint from a bowl they put on the bar I always go to. I haven't had the time for it." By time, he means motivation, and by motivation, he means nerve. Because it's just too closely associated with Esky. It was their thing. Their everything. And if he tries to take anything without her next to him, he's sure he won't be able to handle it.

Because, he _did_ try it. Once. He was sick of sitting around and crying all the time, so he tried to get his shit together and rob a convenience store. But it didn't work. He pulled out his gun and as soon as he saw the way his hand was wrapped around it, and the way he saw the empty space to right of his hand where Esky's gun would be--should be--he burst into tears. An embarrassing, inconsolable fit. The cashier didn't even call the police. They actually came around and gave him a pack of gum and a nice pat on the shoulder. 

So he hadn't committed any crimes since then.

"Bo, don't act like you aren't a criminal mastermind," says Jones. "You've been a thorn in my ass for years. I can't have you taking all my business away again." He gestures to his gross, purple suit. There's a grease stain on chest of it. "I've been living the high life Bo, without you. Feels good. Bet it's what you felt like all that time. I can't let this sort of thing go away, all willy nilly. Not with you blocking the path to success."

Bo throws his hands up in the air. Is no one listening to him? "How many times do I have to say it?! I'm NOT back on the market! You have no evidence for dragging me here! I haven't even been on the news!"

"You're a liar and the father of it Bo," Cade says behind him. "We saw your little girlfriend on the news just last week."

It's at this point that Bo can actually feel his heart stop for a second.

"...What?" he asks. He's surprised by how small his voice comes out, and how he had to force out that one word. That's all he can think. _What? What? What?_

"Oh my god, you're so bad at playing dumb."

Bo starts to move without thinking. He spins around. "Where did you see her?"

Cade holds the gun steady. "We didn't give you permission to move."

"Fuck your permission!" He lunges forward and grips the back of Cade's neck, driving his knee into his stomach. As expected, the gun goes flying as the kid screams out a string of curses. Bo shoves him to the ground, and kicks him in the nethers just for good measure so he can't jump up right away. He grabs the gun and turns it on Jones, finger hovering a millimeter above the trigger. 

Poor Jones. The guy looks shocked. With his hands half in fists and half out, eyebrows up as far as they can go, mouth open in a comical 'O'. He probably didn't expect the hostage to have the balls to fight back. But, as previously discussed, Bo isn't a normal hostage.

"Where did you see her?" Bo demands again. 

"What do you mean?" 

Does this idiot not know he's being held at gunpoint? Bo yells it out. _"Where did you see her!?"_

"Just outside of town," says Jones, finally, pointing in the general direction. "We thought... Aren't you two together?"

"She's supposed to be _dead!"_ Bo turns back around and sprints out of the alleyway, not caring about the two of them calling his name. Soon enough, the voices fade out and he knows they aren't after him. But they will be. But he doesn't give a shit.

Is Esky alive?

**Author's Note:**

> What'd ya think? Good, bad, somewhere in the middle? Tell me!!!!


End file.
